OH MY GOD! YOU KILLED KYLE!
by CandiePie
Summary: Fed up with constantly having to rebirth her son, Carol McCormick enlists the help of a local brujo, who tells her the only way to get rid of the curse is to pass it on to another person. Assured that it will be a completely random person—a Tibetan barley farmer, perhaps?—she agrees. But what will happen when it ends up sticking to someone a little closer to home?
1. Chapter 1

**Note: The is my first attempt at a fanfic. I hope it isn't terrible. All reviews/constructive criticisms welcome. :)**

Chapter 1

BRU-HAH-HAH

The miracle of child birth was growing thin for Carol McCormick. For what felt like the umpteenth time, she found herself wrapping her infant son in his oversized orange parka. Sometimes Stuart would wake up and help her with the mess, but that was only sometimes. Usually he was out cold from all the weed and the case of Pabst Blue Ribbon he had consumed. All courtesy of the money she made washing dishes at the Olive Garden, of course.

She closed her eyes and sighed, swaying slightly on the spot. She had childbirth down to an art, but that didn't mean it wasn't exhausting. Not to mention excruciating.

She should have listened to her mom when she told her that he would never amount to anything and would drag her down with him. But it had been hard to take her mother seriously from behind her handle of chardonnay, sporting her waitressing uniform. Besides, how was she supposed to know that he'd be incapable of holding down a job and would end up dragging her to a ritualistic cult ceremony that would result in her having to constantly rebirth her son? No one expects these things! They just happen.

Carol knew that in the morning everything would return to normal. Her infant child will have sprouted into a fourth grader and she will have forgotten all about late-night rebirths and cult meetings, but for now her brain seethed with the memory of it all.

Upon returning to her room, she flipped on the light. It flickered before turning on, and even then was quite dim. Nothing in the house worked right.

Her husband was a snoring mound of threadbare blankets. Carol could just make out his "SCOTCH" hat protruding from the folds. Carol had been prepared to let him sleep, but the sound of his snores awoke a cold fury in her, and so she picked up her old tennis shoe-grey and grimy from years of dish water she'd sloshed on it-and chucked it at him.

"WAKE UP, YOU SON OF A BITCH!"

She saw him recoil under the covers. "For fuck's sake, woman! Are you crazy!?" he yelled, popping up and staring at her, clearly very startled.

"I just gave birth to your son, asshole! How the hell did you sleep through that? I'LL TELL YOU HOW! Because you drank a case of beer and smoked all my weed!"

Stuart gave her a _what-else-is-new? _sort of expression, and then reached over to the bedside table and retrieved his half-finished Pabst Blue Ribbon Beer. It was room temperature and by now very flat, but he brought it to his lips anyways, relishing the way the liquid filled his dry mouth, washing out the taste of shit that had mysteriously filled it between his last sip of beer and now. His eyes were still crimson from the spliff he and his wife had shared.

"I'm sick of paying for your mistakes, Stuart. We shoulda never gone to that cult meetin."

"Well fuck!" he said, nettled. "You were the one who wanted to 'meet people.'"

"NOT THOSE PEOPLE, YOU STUPID ASSHOLE!"

"I am so fucking sick of hearing it! I don't fucking know what to do! It's your problem-fix it yourself!" He fell back onto the bed and pulled the covers up over his head.

Carol clinched her fists, dirty nails digging into the palms of her hands. There had been a time when Stuart had made decent money working construction. He lost hat job due to a... personality conflict. He got unemployment, but by the time that ran out, he was used to getting paid for nothing and no reputable employer would hire him with his shady work history. Any mention of him taking on a low-wage job resulted in a rant about how he wasn't going to be a 'slave to the system.' She was certain that he was just bull-headed enough to let his laziness put them out on the streets, and so she was the one stuck slaving away. Granted, she was no angel. She was high all the time, and at _least_ buzzed most of the time, and in all fairness none of the money she made really went to anything. They didn't maintain the house or car, and they had their EBT card for food. All the money really went to was supporting their bad habits.

"Fine, you piece of shit," Carol spat, done with all the circular arguments. "I will do something!"

Stuart sat up again, staring as she trudged off. He hastened to follow her, staggering slightly. "What are you going to do, Carol?"

"I'm going to hire a Mexican."

Stuart followed her out to their old station wagon. She put the car in drive and moments later they arrived at the local Home Depot.

"This is stupid, Carol. How are a bunch of Mexicans going to fix your curse? Or does that somehow involve tarring a roof? Also, they're called _day _laborers. No one's going to be here in the dead of night."

Carol ignored him and pulled up beside a group of loitering Mexicans. She smiled triumphantly at Stuart, who frowned but said nothing.

She rolled down the window. "You boys lookin for a job?"

"Yes. We all can work. Si."

"Well I need some of your brujeria to break a curse that was put on me by the ancient cult of Cthulhu."

There was a long pause in which the day laborers just stared blankly at them. Then, "Okay."

"Yeah."

"Okay. No problem. That's no problem."

"Yeah. We can do that."

"Si."

Carol shot Stuart another triumphant smile, who just stared with his mouth hanging open.

"Well get on in boys." The day laborers got into the back seat. "What do you need to get this job done?"

"A cross."

"Si."

"Yeah."

"Si. La cruz."

Carol and Stuart exchanged glances. "Okay... we can get you a cross."

"Si. And hemlock."

"Si."

"Uhh... okay," said Stuart.

"And the head of the goat."

"Sii.."

"Yeah."

"Si, claro. La cabeza de la cabra."

"You... need a goat head?"

"Yes, yes. The head of the goat."

"Si, claro."

"And the blood of the menstruating bear."

"Yes."

"Si."

"Claroo. La sangre de Osa. Sii..."

"What the fuck..." said Stuart.

After they got the necessary ingredients, they returned to their little rundown house. The five Mexicans were in tow, all wearing their Huichol masks. They asked Stuart to get a table upon which they could lay Mrs. McCormick. He of course returned dragging the table he used for beer pong behind him.

Carol clambered on top of it and lay down. She grimaced when they poured the menstrual bear blood all over her. After that was done, they spread the hemlock about her and placed the goat head at the top of the table.

"This spell will cause the curse to move on to another-a completely random person in the world. A Tibetan barley farmer maybe..."

"Yeah."

"Sure."

"Si."

"Someone random? That I don't know?" Carol glanced at Stuart. "Well I guess I can handle that."

"In the morning, all will be as before and you'll forget all about this. So we'll want payment tonight."

"Hey-this better not be a scam-"

"No, senora." He backed away from her, holding the cross Stuart had provided (two twigs bound together with old twine) out in front of him and began a prayer, his comrades humming ominously behind him.

"Ven! Espiritu santo, llena los corazones de los fieles! Y enciende en ellos!-"

On the table, Carol McCormick began to writhe, a faint light seeming to emit from her orifices...


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's note: A special thanks Mickeymouse4everz, Montana-Bob, demonlord5000, puffygeemoth, and fartsockpoopsock for your reviews! And everyone else who showed interest :) means the world to me! **

Chapter 2

Kyle Dies

The next morning started out like any other Monday, with the boys meeting up at the bus stop. Cartman was the last to show, like usual, and was just about to expound upon his latest scheme when a plane engine that had mysteriously extricated itself from the plane fell out of sky and landed directly on Kyle, crushing him instantly.

There was a moment of absolute silence, all of their eyes wide with shock as blood pooled out under the engine, turning the white, fluffy snow underneath it a deep crimson.

It was Stan who made the first sound-something along the lines of 'mmmphf.'

Then Cartman tsked. "That proves it," he said decidedly. "God hates Jews."

Stan found his voice. "O-oh God... Oh God, Kyle! No!"

He threw himself onto the ground, digging his hands into the snow that was now red slush, as though wanting to dig Kyle out. "He's okay! He's okay! He's okay!" he repeated again and again, sounding quite manic as his brown jacket grew dark with his best friend's life blood. "Nonono. He can't be... he can't be... he's my best friend. No. No. NOOOOOOOO!" He screamed to the heavens that had struck the death-blow, hands raised high, supplicating.

"Jeeze, Stan, don't be such a drama queen," Cartman said, rolling his eyes. "Bus is here."

Stan collapsed in the snow and curled into the fetal position, sobbing.

Kenny was unmoving and silent, eyes saucers in his head.

"Are you boys going to school?" the bus lady demanded.

Kenny gestured towards the carnage.

"Oh. All right then."

She was just about to close the doors when Cartman waddled past them. "Wait!" he cried, clambering up the bus steps. "Fuck you guys. I'm not missing Burrito day."

Kenny watched the bus drive off, Stan's relentless sobs white noise in his own numb state of shock. _Why didn't it take me?_ he asked no one. Then he fell to his knees. "Mrrph mrrmpf mmr mmmrrrrr!"

"YEAH! WHY DIDN'T YOU TAKEN KENNNYYYYYY!" Stan agreed.

"Mrph! Mrph mmr mmmrt, mmrf!"

Kenny let him sob into his parka, and for a while the two boys clutched at each other, but by the time the police had arrived, Stan had grown quiet. Kenny tried asking him if he was okay, knowing of course that he wasn't, but Stan was unresponsive. He couldn't possibly put words to his pain. Losing a friend like that-his best friend-was like having a limb torn off unexpectedly.

Kenny told the police that the deceased was Kyle Broflovski and provided them his home-phone number. He also gave them Stan's home-number and his own, knowing that the police would not be able to reach his parents.

Sheila and Gerald Broflovski arrived in short order. Sheila was in hysterics and lost it completely when she saw what remained of her son.

"NOOOOO!" she screeched. "OH GOD NO! NOT MY BUBBEH! NOT MY BUBBEH! PLEEEEAAAASSSEE! NOT MY BUBBEH! AHHHH!"

Gerald had to hold her back. Her arms flailed as she struggled against her husband. She kept screaming, "Nooo! NOT MY BUBBEH!" As though if she said it enough it would make it true. Kenny could just make out Gerald say to his wife, "He's gone, Sheila. He's gone. I'm so sorry. He's gone," his own voice thick with pain.

Randy and Sharon came next. When they got out of the car, Randy put an arm around his wife's shoulders and pulled her close. They looked at the Broflovskis, who were sobbing into each other's shoulders. Randy and Sharon exchanged glances, silently agreeing that now was not the time to talk to them.

"Stan, sweetie," said Sharon, stooping low and pulling her blood-covered, shell-shocked son into a hug.

Stan looked at her, eyes glazed. "It just... fell from the sky... it just... I don't... why, mom? Why?"

"Oh, sweetie, I'm so sorry."

"Alright, son, let's get you home," said Randy with a heavy sigh.

Stan didn't need much coaxing. He allowed his mother's gentle hand to lead him to the back seat of their car, behaving as though he were in a stupor.

Before getting into the driver seat, Randy hesitated. He turned back to Kenny. "Do you need a ride?"

Kenny shook his head. "Mrph. Mrrph mmmr."

Randy looked as though he might insist, but then shrugged. He got in his car and drove away.

Kenny got up and started off in the direction of home. Though he didn't get very far before a single thought overwhelmed him, and he found himself falling on the nearest post for support.

_That was meant for me. _

Kenny would have just come back and everyone would have forgotten that _impossible _thing that had happened. But Kyle would never return, and the suddenness and pointlessness of his death would destroy his family and friends.

_You killed Kyle. You bastard._

Kenny dug his nails into the post supporting him, feeling as though he might vomit.

_No,_ he told himself firmly. _You don't know that._

But he thought he did, and he was filled with a panic he couldn't quite explain.

He unzipped his parka and retrieved his revolver from the inside pocket. He carried it on his person in case he had to get out of a tight spot.

He contemplated the weapon.

It had a sort of simple appeal. He could just blow his brains out, not have to face all the empty attempts at comforting him. He was sure they would all be just _so sorry _his little friend had died, but they could never understand his feelings of confusion and guilt.

If he acted quickly, he might even _see_ Kyle in hell.

The thought was immensely comforting.

He pressed the barrel of the gun under his chin, feeling its cold but familiar kiss. On the verge of pulling the trigger, he realized with a sudden surge of guilt, that he was still well within seeing and hearing distance of the police officers. If they heard him, they would come running and it would be another tragic, pointless death of a child. Granted, everyone would forget it the next day, but it seemed disrespectful somehow-not to mention cruel to Stan. If he was going to kill himself, he needed to do it somewhere private.

The thought of Stan made him hesitate. When he died, he sometimes went to hell, but sometimes there was only darkness. Even if he did go to hell, there was no guarantee he'd see Kyle. In fact, that prospect was becoming less and less likely with each passing second, and even if he did see him, what would he say to him? _Sorry, dude. I think my immortality is on the fritz and you were a casualty_?(Kenny clutched his stomach, feeling another wave of nausea wash through him.)

Perhaps he'd see Kyle some other time. Stan needed him now, and he was no good to anyone dead.

That was as true for him as it was for anyone else.

He returned his revolver to its pocket and zipped up his parka, starting in the direction of Stan's house. The walk would give his friend plenty of time to grieve with his parents. He wasn't sure what he could say or do for Stan, but he would need a friend.

He tried not to think anymore during his walk, sure that the image of his Kyle getting flattened like that would drive him insane. Upon arriving on the Marsh doorstep, he knocked. It was Randy Marsh who answered, looking somber. "Oh, hi, Kenny," he said, stepping aside to let him in. "Stan is upstairs in his room."

When Kenny entered Stan's room, he found him lying flat on his stomach in bed with his mother rubbing his back. Feeling that this was an intimate moment between mother and son, he started to back out, but Sharon saw him and beckoned him forward, pulling him into a hug when he was within grabbing distance.

"I'm sorry, boys," she said, her voice hoarse. "I'm so sorry you had to see that." She sniffed.

Stan was staring blankly at the wall. His eyes were red from crying, though now he was quiet and still. Those red, glazed over eyes reminded Kenny of his parents after they'd been smoking.

He put a hand on Stan's back, feeling awkward. "Mrrph mrrph, mrrph."

Startling both his mother and Kenny, Stan sat up. "Mom," he said suddenly, "do you think you could go to the store and get Kenny and me some ice cream? Mint chip."

Sharon blinked, obviously caught off guard by the off-the-wall request, but her expression cleared and Kenny could tell from her voice that she was ecstatic to have _something _to do. "Of course, sweetie." She pulled him into a hug and planted a firm kiss on the top of his head, then hurried out as though the world depended on the timely delivery of her son's mint chocolate chip ice cream.

As soon as she was gone, Stan grabbed his backpack from the floor beside his bed and unzipped it. After rummaging through it for a moment, he pulled out his flask and unscrewed the cap. Kenny wrinkled his nose as the smell of Jack Daniels wafted into the air.

Stan took it like medicine, and then handed it to Kenny, wiping his lips.

Kenny took it with a sigh.

This was going to be a long night.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: Hey guys! A special thanks to JoannaKuwabara, Montana-Bob, MarshieMello-Cookies, HumanKite96, demonlord5000, and Mickeymouse4everz for your reviews! And also, a special thanks to everyone else who followed and/or favorited! Means the world to me. I haven't had very much time with the holidays and everything. I literally had to write this chapter word by word. I hope it turned out okay. Also, I went back and changed all of Kenny's previous dialogue to 'mrrph mrrph' just because I always thought that was a funny gag in the show and I wanted to incorporate it into my fic.**

Chapter 3

Kyle Goes To Hell

Everything went black, then he was falling, falling, falling...

Kyle landed with a thud and an 'OOMPF!' He pushed himself off the ground with his hands and stood up, hearing the muffled thuds of people falling in place behind him. The sight that greeted him was horrendous. Thousands of lost souls-most old and decrepit, but all ages, races, and creeds were present-shuffled towards their doom in a long, coiling line. It wrapped around red velvet rope and seemed to go on forever. The thrum of thousands of casual conversation hung in the air like a death moan, mingling with the pitiful wails of the damned that hung from walls and ceiling by shackles. It was at least as bad as brunch hour at Country Kitchen Buffet.

"What the hell..."

Just then a demon woman wearing a hula skirt and a coconut-shell bra threw a flower lei over his head and said, "Welcome to hell! Please wait in line to receive your torture schedule."

"What do you mean 'welcome to hell?'" But the woman had already moved on, tossing a lei over the next confused person. "WHAT DO YOU 'MEAN WELCOME TO HELL'?" Kyle shouted.

"Please hold all questions for the reception desk," she said, and continued down the line, addressing each person in their respective language.

Kyle looked down the line, which ended at the desks of some very authorial-looking demon women wearing pantsuits. They sat against a backdrop of filing cabinets and had piles of paper stacked in front of them.

Judging from the length of the line and the pace they were moving, Kyle guessed it would take at least ten hours to get to them. Probably more. "God dammit..." he muttered, prompting a shadow-demon-dog to run up to him and poke him with a cow prod. "OW!" Kyle jumped and backed away hastily. The shadow-demon-dog thing just gibbered at him angrily but was impossible to understand. He too continued down the line, prodding anyone who showed signs of unrest.

Hell was very hot, and his ushanka and jacket weren't helping. The heat seemed to radiate from the ground, seeping through the soles of his shoes. Kyle's socks became completely soaked through, making each step agonizingly squishy. By the time he reached the receptions desks, he was disheveled; sweat dripping into his eyes and his bright red hair plastered to his face in strands.

"Name?" asked the demon woman receptionist. Her nametag denoted her as 'Ann.'

"Kyle Broflovski," Kyle panted.

"One moment." She rolled back on her chair and retrieved a fire from the cabinet.

"Ah, yes. Kyle Broflovski. Here's your schedule for eternal torment." She handed him a sheet of paper with a schedule table on it. "First up, you will be shackled to a wall for 1000 years of torment and used bodily by the shadow demon dogs. Please proceed to your left and through gate 16."

"WHAT?"

"It's not that bad. They mostly just hump your legs."

"NONONO! This isn't right! Why am I here? I'm a _good _person! I go to the Synagogue every week!"

Ann tsked. "Well there's your problem. Judaism isn't the correct faith."

Kyle frowned. "You gotta be fucking kidding me. What is?"

"Mormonism."

"What?"

"Mormonism."

Kyle cocked an eyebrow. "Mormonism."

"Mormonism."

Kyle stared.

"He was letting others into heaven for a while, but that was just as death fodder for his war against hell."

"Ahhhh," Kyle grimaced. "But-I-but..." Kyle gave himself a little shake. "That is not the point! I shouldn't even _be _here. I'm just a kid!" He could feel the panic rise up in him like bile. "I can't be dead!"

Ann blinked and peered down at his chart. "It says here that you were crushed by a falling plane engine."

"What?"

"Yeah..." she agreed, "that's a weird one."

"NO SHIT!" shouted Kyle, fists clinched in anger. "Oh, God! This can't be happening! I'm a good person! Please-I think if you look at my file you'll see I don't deserve this! I'm a good person! _Please!_"

Her eyes flitted back to his chart and she ran one clawed finger down the paper, muttering under her breath as she did so, "heresy...blasphemy...boasting...pride...fraud...oooooo, it says here that you were an accountant with the, erm, 'Crack Baby Athletic Association'?"

Kyle closed his eyes and sucked in his breath, trying to remain calm. "I think that if you really look at my file, you'll see I've done way more good than bad," he said, trying to sound reasonable.

She blinked and looked down again. "Under that it says you were party to the burning and permanent disfigurement of a Mrs. Claridge and let one Trent Boyett take the fall."

"Oh, come on!-"

"And under that it says you killed Jesus Christ..."

"Alright, alright!" Kyle knew he was losing this argument. "Is there anything I can do to fix this?"

"Well... I suppose you can file for an appeal."

"An appeal?" Kyle brightened. "Okay. I'll do that."

She pulled the paperwork out from her drawer and handed it to Kyle along with a pen. "About how long will this take?" he asked, bending to fill out his information.

"Approximately eleven thousand four hundred and ninety six years."

Kyle dropped the pen. "What?"

"Sorry, kid. But you're not exactly the first person to think hell wasn't the right fit for them. We're a bit backed up."

Kyle was about to argue, but then someone shouted behind him, "COME ON, DUDE! YOU'RE HOLDING UP THE LINE!"

Kyle glanced behind him. The people in line were beginning to rabble.

"NO RABBLING!" Ann shouted, and a bunch of shadow demons swarmed the crowd and stuck them with the end of their prods. Frowning, Kyle hastened to fill out the form and handed it back to Ann. She took it with a complacent smile and said, "Thank you! Now please proceed to your left and through gate 16 where your eternal torment will begin."

Kyle sighed and trudged off.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Hello, everyone! Hope I find you well. A special thanks to Montana-Bob, Demonlord5000, Mickeymouse4everz, JoannaKuwabara, deathNspikes, OMAC001, AKA 24601, LunalsTooCute, MarshiMello-Cookies, HumanKite96, idkgirl27, and guest. Your reviews are so encouraging and really make my day! I haven't had very much time for reading or writing lately, so if I've seemed a little inactive that's why. I think it will be easier after december. I hope y'all enjoy! I also want to thank everyone who followed and/or favorited. Means the world 3 **

Chapter 4

Fuck Fruit

In no way eager to begin his 'eternal torment,' Kyle bypassed Gate 16, and was just hunkering down to watch the River of Stix semi-annual father-son raft race (Satan and Damien were, of course, _the _favorite to win), when... His alarm went off.

Kyle's eyes opened slowly and there was a long moment in which he stared at the face of his alarm clock, its neon-green digital numbers somehow accusing as it screeched at him to _get the fuck up._

He turned it off and sat up, looking around his room. He felt... discombobulated somehow.

He'd been having a weird dream, and then his alarm clock had gone off. Nothing weird about that... except it hadn't felt like a dream, and this didn't feel like waking up. He gave himself a little shake and kicked off his covers, intent on getting through the morning grind, but though he got on his clothes like normal, that feeling of being disoriented didn't go away, and in fact increased with the realization that he'd already had a Monday morning _yesterday._

He was brushing his teeth, and the thought made him pause mid-stroke.

He cocked an eyebrow at his foamy-mouthed reflection. _So... what are you getting at? You got ready for school, somehow ended up dying at the bus stop, went to hell, and then mysteriously woke up back in bed? Hah! Well that makes no sense._

He went back to brushing his teeth, spat, and then headed to the kitchen. The smell of pancakes wafted over to greet him, and when he arrived at the dining room table, he found his mother had already made him a plate.

He sat down and bent over his breakfast gratefully.

"Good morning!" his mother greeted, a little surprised his didn't say anything upon entering. "You seem a little distracted. Is everything alright?"

"Yeah, I think so," said Kyle.

"You think so? Well—what's wrong, bubbeh?"

"Nothing—I just had a weird dream last night."

"Is that so? Well why don't you tell your family all about it?"

Kyle hesitated, and then said, "I dreamt I went to Hell because I'm not a Mormon and was sentenced to an eternity of torment, starting with a thousand years of being shackled and raped by demons."

The Broflovski family sat in silence for a long while, their mouths hanging open.

It was Ike who broke the silence: "D'fuq?"

"Oh my goodness!" exclaimed Sheila.

After giving him a mouthful about how he should watch his mouth around Ike and respect his religion, Sheila shunted him out the door and off to the bus stop, Kyle's mood all the worse for it.

He was the last to arrive, which was unusual. "Hey, guys."

"Hey, dude," Stan greeted, while Kenny waved.

"Where were you yesterday?" Cartman demanded.

Kyle blinked. "What do you mean? We played video games at your house all day yesterday."

"What?!" Cartman exclaimed in disbelief.

"That was Sunday," said Stan.

"Yeah. Yesterday was Sunday," said Kyle, confused.

His three friends exchanged glances.

"Nooo," Cartman drawled. "Yesterday was Monday. I know because I had burritos. But you_ all _skipped school like a bunch of hippies! I had no one to hang out with but Butters. BUTTERS! Now I'd expect this kind of behavior from Kenny, and of course you're always sick." He threw Kyle a dirty look. "But all three of you absent on the same day? That's too big of a coincidence! Now what were you guys doing without me!?"

"Dude—" said Stan, "I told you; I was sick."

"Mrph mro!" Kenny agreed.

Cartman's eyes flitted between them, as though trying to catch them in a lie. After a moment, he turned back to Kyle. "I guess you were sick too, then?"

Kyle was looking at Stan and Kenny. They did seem a little under the weather, but Kyle just felt confused.

"Wait—I thought today was Monday..."

All three of them stared at him.

"No, dude. It's Tuesday."

"Hmph! How convenient! Stan and Kenny were 'sick' and _you_ have amnesia," said Cartman.

"Oh man," said Kyle, "This is so weird. I coulda swore it was Monday."

"What did you do yesterday?" asked Stan, concerned.

"That's the thing—I thought we had played video games, but that was Sunday."

"You lost a whole day?"

"Yeah. I guess so..." Kyle might have been harder to convince under different circumstances. It did all seem like an elaborate joke of the sort they sometimes played on Cartman. But his internal clock was insisting it was true. "I—well—I remember getting ready on Monday... and coming to the bus stop. But then it goes black, and them I'm in my bed having fucked up dreams."

Stan and Kenny looked confused by that explanation. Cartman just looked annoyed.

"Stop trying to change the subject!" he erupted. "What were you guys doing without me?"

But no one was listening. Kyle felt worried. He had never been in the best health (as Cartman had so tactfully pointed out earlier.) Was his mental health now slipping?

"I dunno, man," said Stan. "That could be serious. My dad knew a guy who was all forgetful like that one day, and then died of a brain infection the next."

Kyle started at him, startled. "You think I have a brain infection?"

"Maybe," Stan said, very unhelpful.

"Dude!"

"Mmrd mmd mroo mrmm?" asked Kenny.

"Oh—" Kyle looked at him, distracted. "I dreamt I died and went to hell." Kyle frowned. "It was actually a really lame dream now that I think about it. It was superhot and I had to stand in line for like twelve hours."

"Mmrd?!" Kenny looked startled.

Just then the bus pulled up and the four boys filed inside.

Cartman didn't want to let the subject go. He was convinced they'd ditched him, and if they expected him to believe some cockamamie story—they were all surprised by the use of this phrase—about Stan and Kenny being sick and Kyle having amnesia, then they had something else coming to them.

Kenny, on the other hand, seemed very interested in Kyle's dream excursion into Hell, and got in all the questions he could between Cartman's whining, until Kyle finally said, "Dude—it was a dream. Drop it."

Kenny then fell into a pensive silence. When he had arrived at the bus stop, Cartman had bombarded him with questions about where he had been on Monday too. Kenny had supplied an answer easily enough: He'd been sick. But after hearing Kyle's undeniably accurate description of Hell and about how he had 'lost' a day, Kenny realized that there had been something weird about the way his memory had just _filled _in upon being asked the question. It was as though if Cartman hadn't asked, Kenny would not have even thought about how he'd been sick enough to miss school, something that was a rare occurrence despite the fact that many regarded him as a chronic truant.

Not too long ago, Bebe had told him that whenever he was absent, his peers joked that he was dead. Usually this happened when Mr. Gerrison was calling roll; his name would be called, and when there was no answer, one of his classmates would say, 'Kenny died,' the joke of course being that he would show up the next day without explanation.

Kenny had laughed when Bebe told him this. But only because he thought Bebe was incredibly hot.

Truth was, Kenny had no reason to skip school. Why would he want to stay home? His father was unemployed and an alcoholic. It wasn't as though he'd get sole control of the TV. And he didn't do drugs anymore.

All in all, it was very weird that he had woken up that morning, and no memory of illness had been at the forefront of his mind.

Even now, sitting in silence on the way to school, the specific details of the previous day eluded him. It was like trying to catch a singular and specific goldfish from amongst its school with nothing but your bare hands. It just swam away and got lost in the larger picture.

Had his memory been patched? Was _this _what it was like? He was probably just jumping to conclusions. It's not like immortality is a catching disease. _Is it?_

At recess, they decided to get out onto the basketball court for a game of HORSE. Kyle had just gotten his first letter, when a bee flew into the court. "Flew" is, however, a generous word. It was more like it careened, buzzing wildly before crash-landing in front of Cartman, who slammed the basketball against the ground as hard as he could, crushing it. "Hah! Fuck you, bee!"

"Dude!" said Stan, frowning. "What's your problem?"

"What do you mean?" asked Cartman, looking confused.

"You can't just go around killing bees. You know they're all dying, right? If you go around throwing basketballs at them, soon there won't be any left."

Cartman cocked an eyebrow. "So?"

"So? We need bees to pollenate fruit and shit."

"Fruit?" Cartman stared, then, "DO I LOOK LIKE I EAT FRUIT?" As if to accent his point, another bee veered in front of him, and Cartman again chucked the basketball.

"Dude!" said Stan.

"Fuck fruit, you hippy!"

"Guys—" Kyle interjected before Stan could say thing to that. He sounded nervous. "There are a lot of bees flying over here. Maybe we should play somewhere else?"

They looked around, and indeed, Kyle was right. Dozens of them were now sharing the court, some buzzing around erratically, others crawling along the asphalt.

"Awww," Stan lamented, "I think they're sick."

"Hey, guys—" said Cartman, who wasn't paying any attention at all, "watch this." He then proceeded to slaughter the unsuspecting bees with the blunt force of the school basketball.

"Cartman, you fat ass!"

"Come on, guys," said Kyle. "Let's get out of here. I don't want to get stung."

"They won't sting you unless you give them a reason to," said Stan, with a pointed look at Cartman.

"Yeah, Kahl," Cartman agreed, "Stop being such a girl!" He then chucked the basketball right at Kyle's head. The force was such that Kyle actually stumbled backwards.

"Gah! What the hell was that for, fat ass?"

"'Ey! There was a bee! I was just getting it for you, but you know what? Next time I won't bother!"

"Dumbass!" Kyle erupted. "You made it sting me!" Sure enough, where Cartman had hit him, an angry red bump was rising.

"Awww, buuummer," said Cartman, dragging his words. "You're not allergic, are you?" he asked, sounding as if it were too good a thing to hope for.

"No!" But even as he said the word, Kyle could feel his throat closing.

His three friends stared at him in vague surprise, watching as his face flushed and his eyes bulged.

"Mrf! Mm hhnk hs mro hm hmdh hnhfhrrhdrmd mrph!"

Stan stared at Kenny. "What the hell is 'anaphylactic shock'?"

Kyle took that moment to collapse, clutching at his throat and making a choking noise.

"Wow!" Stan hit his knees next to Kyle. "Dude, what's wrong?" But all Kyle could manage was another weird choking noise. His face was growing redder by the second. Stan looked up at Cartman and Kenny, eyes huge in his white face. "Why are you guys just standing around? Go get help!"

Kenny didn't need telling twice, but Cartman didn't budge. Stan stared at him in disbelief. "What are you _doing_?" he demanded.

"Oh—I'm not missing this," Cartman explained.

Kenny came back with Mr. Mackey and the school nurse, but by that time Kyle's face had taken on a bluish hue. Using a shot with a scary-looking needed, the school nurse stabbed him in the heart, but it was too late for it to do any good, and when the paramedics arrive, they pronounced him dead on the scene.

Upon hearing his best friend being pronounced dead what little color there was drained from Stan's face. Cartman, who had not moved once as the scene played out before him, let out a solemn sigh. "See, Stan? That's what you get for being a dirty hippy."

Stan turned to face him. "You killed Kyle," he said in stunned disbelief. "I can't believe it—you actually killed him, you fat bastard."

"'Ey! Don't call me fat!"

Stan couldn't find the words to respond, so he just stood with his mouth hanging open, staring at Cartman, and even the bell that signaled the end of recess couldn't snap him out of his reverie.

"Alright, kids, that's the end of recess. Show's over, mmkay?" Mr. Mackey said to the crowd of students who had clustered around them. "Back to class." He tried shunting the stragglers towards the school house.

"Claaaaassss?" Cartman whined. "How do you expect us to learn in our current emotional staaaates?"

Mr. Mackey seemed to consider this. "Yes. I'm sorry about your little friend, boys. Why don't you three take the day off?"

Cartman punched the air triumphantly and waddled off.

Kenny sidled up to Stan and put a hand on his shoulder. Stan seemed not to notice. Kenny didn't feel much in the way of grief. With everything that Kyle had said that day, his death seemed far too random to be coincidence.

But what did that mean for him, Kenny? Had it jumped from him to Kyle? Or _was _it like a catching disease and now they both had it?

Was he still "immortal"?

The idea that he_ might_ not be was striking, and it incited a strange emotion in him. It was sort of like standing on the edge of a cliff. Of course, people didn't normally jump off the edges of cliffs, but the idea that you _could _jump if you wanted to is intrusive no matter who you are when standing on the edge of one.

Kenny shook his head. Why was he thinking like that? He was making too many assumptions, and everyone knows what that does. He would have a much better idea of where he stands tomorrow.

_Tomorrow..._

His mind snagged on the thought. If his theory was correct, then there was no way he would remember all of the day's happenings come tomorrow. He ran off to write a note to himself. He felt a little guilty for leaving Stan, but after reminding himself of the casual disregard with which he had met his, Kenny's, deaths, it was hard to feel too bad.


	5. Chapter 5

**AN: Hey, guys! Hope everyone's holidays were good. As always, thank you EVERYONE who has been reviewing. Means a lot. I know it's been a while, so I hope I haven't lost too many of you D: But I've got two new chapters for you guys, and I hope you enjoy. **

Chapter 5  
Kyle Goes to Hell... Again

Kyle continued to clutch at his throat and choke for some time before realizing he was okay. He stopped spluttering abruptly and sprang up, looking around. He was no longer in the school yard, but he recognized his surroundings all instantly.

"Ahh—god dammit," he muttered, dismayed.

Just then, the demon greeter threw a lei over his head with an obligatory "welcome to Hell," and then continued down the line without a second glance.

Kyle lifted the red velvet rope that contained the line and walked under it, hurrying after the greeter. "Wait!"

She turned to face him, "Please, sir—get back in line or I'll have to call security." She gestured at a group of shadow-demon dogs who were clustered around a coffee machine, their spears propped up against a nearby rock.

Kyle glanced at them before saying, "Just hear me out. I think there has been some sort of mistake. I've already done all this already."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean I've already had this dream."

"What?"

"I've already died and gone to Hell, stood in line, filed an appeal with the receptionist, and got my schedule for eternal torment... etcetera."

"That is odd," she agreed. "I'm sure they'll be able to help you at the front desk. Please get back in line."

"Oh come on! I can't stand in that line again. Can I just speak with your supervisor?" That was a little trick he learned from his mother; when things aren't going your way, ask to speak with a supervisor.

"Fine," she said with a sigh, and walked off. She returned moments later with a bald and skinny Indian man wearing spectacles. "Mr. Gandhi, sir, this boy wants to speak with you."

Kyle stared at him. "Gandhi?"

"That's my name. Don't wear it out."

"You're the acting supervisor?"

"Yes. What's the problem?"

"Uh—okay... Well, I've already done the whole admissions process or whatever... I really don't want to stand in line again, you know?"

Gandhi produced an iPad from his dhothi. "Name?"

Kyle stared. "Is that... an iPad?"

"Yes. Hell's in business with Apple."

"Of course," said Kyle with a wry smile. "My name's Kyle Broflovski."

Mahatma Gandhi prodded the screen of the iPad very slowly and diligently, the way old people tend to do. Kyle rolled his eyes. After what felt like forever and a day, he said, "Yes. It does look as though you were admitted yesterday, and I see two different causes of death on two different dates."

"How's that possible?"

"I don't know. These notes are generated automatically by the system. No explanation was given."

"Well... what are you going to do?"

Gandhi looked nonplussed. He opened his mouth to answer, closed it, opened it again, closed it, but was spared answering by the arrival of another demon. "Hey, uhh, the boss-man says that if we don't meet our admissions quota today he's going to hose us down with industrial strength lye."

"Oh wow," said Gandhi, blinking.

"Yup," said the demon, and walked off casually.

"Listen, kid," said Gandhi, "I don't really have time to sort this out now. We're a little backed up today."

"Yeah. No shit," said Kyle, looking around with a flagrantly unimpressed expression on his face. "This place is a cluster fuck. People just fall into line? What sense does that make? You need some organization. Maybe make the lines alphabetical—have all the A's in one, all the B's in another... that way you can access people files quicker."

Gandhi looked surprised. "You are quite the bureaucrat, aren't you? You must be Jewish."

Kyle frowned. "What?"

"Hey!" said Gandhi suddenly, his eyes lighting up, "How would you like to be acting supervisor here? We're always on the lookout for good administrators."

"Uh—no," said Kyle, nettled.

"Are you sure? It's all the administrative power anyone could ever hope for." He unpinned his name tag, which read "Supervisor: Gandhi" and held it out to Kyle like someone luring a child into their car with a piece of candy.

Kyle felt a familiar itch in the tips of his fingers, and before he could stop himself, he snatched the name tag from Gandhi's outstretched palm and pinned it to his jacket.

"Great!" said Gandhi. "I'm gonna go take 15." He walked off.

The demon greeter looked at Kyle.

"Uh... get back to work?"

"Yes, Mr. Gandhi, Sir!" she said, and returned to her task.

Kyle rubbed his hands together, and smiling a small smile, sought out Ann.

"Hello, Mr. Gandhi, Sir," she said upon seeing him.

"No. It's me, Kyle Broflovski. Don't you remember?"

"No..." she said, staring at him with a blank expression on her face.

Kyle blinked. "Really? A plane engine fell from the sky and crushed me. You honestly don't remember that conversation?"

"Sorry, Sir, but you all kind of look the same to me."

Kyle shrugged. This was probably a sickness induced psychosis anyways. No use getting hung up on the small stuff. "Okay then. Gandhi is having me take over as acting supervisor, and there are going to be some changes around here. They might seem radical at first, but by the time I'm done, this place will be a model of efficiency. Now, first things first, the lines should be somewhat alphabetical. If you have one line dedicated to A's and another to B's and so on, you'll be able to get to people's files quicker. If we do that, I guarantee we can increase efficiency by at least 10 percent!"

Ann just sat, looking at him with a disinterested expression.

"What are you waiting for?"

Ann let out a long sigh and pulled an intercom out from her desk drawer. Pressing the button, she relayed Kyle's somewhat complicated instructions. "Anyone whose last name starts with A, please get in lines 1-3, anyone whose name starts with B, get in lines 4-6..." she went on like this for some time, and when she was done, she repeated it. When she was done with that she said, "Anyone who fails to comply with these directions will be escorted to Gate 22 for disembowelment."

There was a cumulative grumble amongst the damned, but people complied, shepherded by Hell security (Kyle could see their spearheads bobbing over the heads of the crowd.) Given the number of people, watching them shuffle to their designated lines was quite a sight, and Kyle felt sort of like the choreographer of an enormous dance number, and given his complete lack of rhythm, it was actually a pretty fair depiction of what one of his dance numbers might look like.

He bobbed about happily as he watched, feeling the high only administrative power could give him. Just then, a formidable looking demon wearing a suit and tie and flanked by security approached him. "Mahatma Gandhi?" he inquired.

"Uh—no—I—"_  
_  
"Detain him!"

Without further warning, Kyle was tackled to the ground and handcuffed.

"Mahatma Gandhi, you are under arrest for high treason and espionage against Hell. You—"

"But I'm not—"

"—have the right to shut the fuck up. Anything you say can and will be added to the list of charges against you..."

Kyle bit his tongue, using all the self-restraint he could muster to hold his silence. He was then shunted to a court room, where Satan presided as Judge.

"Mahatma Gandhi," said Satan, when Kyle was stood in front of him, "You stand accused of high treason and espionage. How do you plea?"

"I'm not Gandhi!"

There was the scrape of someone standing abruptly. "The prosecution would like that stricken from the record." Kyle turned to face the prosecution. He recognized Johnnie Cochran. "His name is clearly written... on his name tag!" he concluded dramatically.

"The accused's statement shall be stricken."

"What?" said Kyle, furious. "Gandhi just gave him this name tag so I could act as supervisor. I mean—look at me! I'm not Gandhi! I'm little Jewish boy for God's sake!"

"How does the defendant plea?" asked Satan again, sounding exasperated.

"Not guilty! But—"

"Okay. What's the prosecutions opening argument?"

Johnnie Cochran stood up, set up his stand, and rolled out his picture of Chewbacca. "Ladies and gentlemen of the Jury, this is Chewbacca. Chewbacca is a Wookie from the planet Kashyyk, but Chewbacca lives on the planet Endor. Now think about that. That does not make sense."

"God dammit," murmured Kyle.

"Why would a Wookie—an eight foot tall Wookie—want to live on Endor with a bunch of two-foot-tall Ewoks? That does not make sense! But more importantly, you have to ask yourself, what does this have to do with this case? Nothing. Ladies and gentle, it has nothing to do with this case. It does not make sense. Why am I even here? I'm a really rich high profile defense attorney! Why am I acting as prosecutor? Does that make sense? No! Ladies and gentlemen of this supposed Jury, none of this makes sense. If Chewbacca lives on Endor you must convict! The defense rests."

"Your rebuttal?"

"I'm not Gandhi!"

"Is that all?" asked Satan.

"That's the crux of it."

"Then the Jury is dismissed for deliberation."

"What?" said Kyle. "We just finished the opening statements."

"Do you have anything else to say, Mr. Cochran?"

Cochran stood. "No, your honor, I think I've made my point," and just to reiterate, "I think I've made my point."

"Then the Jury's dismissed for deliberation. Take the defendant to a holding cell."

"What—hey! That's not fair!"

Kyle was hoisted off the ground by the scruff of his jacket. Kyle looked around to see the enormous demon that had originally taken him in. "Let me go!" He squirmed and kicked but the demons reach was such that Kyle couldn't even get to him.

He was thrown unceremoniously into the holding cell. He sprang to his feet and ran for the door, but it was slammed in in face and locked. "Someone will come and get you when the Jury returns with their verdict."

"Wait!"

But the demon turned his back on him and walked out, leaving Kyle alone. "God dammit! What kind of charade is this!" he screamed, rattling the bars of his cell. "THIS ISN'T JUSTICE!" He went on shouting for some time, and then suddenly, the demon returned. Kyle stopped yelling at once.

"They're ready for you in court."

He was lead back to the court room and sat in his chair. The foreman rose. "We find the defendant guilty on all counts."

There was an outbreak of whisperd conversation.

"ORDER IN THE COURT!" shouted Satan, pounding his gavel. Silence fell immediately. "I hereby sentence the defendant to death."

"No!" yelled Kyle, and was just about to make a dramatic plea for his life when he remembered, "Wait—aren't I already dead?"

"Don't be a smartass, Gandhi. You're already in deep shit," said Satan, with another pound of his gavel. "Take him back to his cell while we prepare for his execution."

The guards closed in on Kyle, but then there was an audible "POP!" and Kyle vanished. Or rather, Kyle vanished and then there was an audible "POP!" as the air rushed in to fill the void left by him.

There was silence in the court room, all eyes on the now empty spot.

"Where'd he go?" asked Satan. No one answered, only whispered amongst themselves.

Satan's eyes glowed a furious red. "WHERE DID HE GO!" He shouted, upturning the judge's bench with such force that it flew across the court room. Then suddenly the prince of darkness was ablaze and thrashing about the room, punching domes and setting everything he touched aflame. Human and demon spectators alike fled before his wrath.

Satan was throwing a tantrum, and it was EPIC.


	6. Chapter 6

**AN: For this fic, I'm going to assume that Kenny has had a lot of off-screen deaths. I know this directly conflicts some SP episodes, but I hope y'all will forgive me. **

Chapter 6  
Memento

The alarm clock on Kenny's phone went off. He hit the snooze button and closed his eyes. Lying never felt as good as when it was time to get up.

Kenny hit the snooze button three more times before finally rolling out of bed and putting on his orange snowsuit. He was just about to go to the bathroom to empty out and brush his teeth, when something caught his eye.

A note had been taped to his nightstand.

He crossed over to it and snatched it off. Recognizing his own handwriting he read:

_Talk to Kyle about your problem. He just mite listen this time. _

He couldn't remember writing the note and couldn't imagine why he would. Why did past Kenny have to be so cryptic? After rereading the line a couple of times, he crumpled the note in his hand and pocketed it. There was no reason not to follow his past self's instructions, and so he was resolved to do so, but when he arrived at the bus stop, Kyle wasn't there.

"Mrph Mrl?" he asked Stan.

"He just text me. Said he was sick."

"Wow. That's so unusual for Kyle," said Cartman with his usual sarcasm. "Hopefully it's not his kidney. I don't have any more spares."

Stan and Kenny ignored him.

Kenny pulled out his phone. It was a bottom-of-the-barrel, pay-as-you-go, flip phone. It wasn't like he couldn't get his hands on a smart phone if he really wanted one, but he did not think he could foot the bill for the data plan, so he settled. His flip phone might not have had a lot of fancy features, but it was at least indestructible.

He shot a message to Kyle just as the bus pulled up.

Where u ?

Kenny barely participated in any conversation during the ride to school. This was in no way unusual, so no one noticed. What was unusual was the way he kept glancing at his phone. He knew that if Kyle replied, his phone would alert him. Hell, it would probably alert the whole bus with how loudly it vibrated, but Kenny couldn't help himself, and only put it away at Mr. Garrison's request.

"Alright, class, sit down and shut up. It's time for roll-call. Kenny—if I see that phone again, I'll snap you in half."

"Don't you mean snap _it _in half?" asked Stan.

Mr. Garrison shot him a placid look. "Yeah. Whatever."

Kenny didn't need telling twice. He dropped his phone into his open backpack, which he had propped up against his chair. Mr. Garrison started his lecture on the latest Duck Dynasty scandal. Kenny let his mind wander. Kyle's absence made talking to him seem that much more important, and when the bell finally rang for first break, he dove for the phone in his bag and rushed out of the classroom.

He read Kyle's reply, Out sick today.

He replied, fuck i wanted 2 talk 2 u

Then talk.

Kenny hesitated, thumbs hovering over the keypad of his phone. This didn't seem like something he should discuss over text. Then again, why not? Kyle would either believe him this time or he wouldn't. What did it really matter _how _he breached the subject?

Relying heavily on T9 (does anyone even still remember this?), Kenny pounded out his life story, and after a couple of rereads, hit "send."

ive died tons of times but i always come back usually i wake up back n my own bed. the worst prt is noone remembers my deaths. ican be decapitated in front of u 1 day and the next u will just ask me where I ran off 2

Kenny stared at the words smirking to himself. Seeing it written out like that, it did all seem rather ridiculous. Kyle would probably just remind him that they'd stopped playing superheroes months ago.

It was a long time before he got a reply.

Can you come over to my house after school so we can talk?

Kenny's heart raced. He knew he shouldn't get his hopes up, but Kyle wanted to talk. Actually _talk_. He wasn't being scoffed at or completely dismissed.

arent u sick?

Don't worry about it. Just come over after school.

ok

With that, Kenny pocketed his phone.

* * *

Upon waking up, Kyle rolled out of bed and sought his mother. He told her everything he could. A lot of weird things had happened to Kyle throughout his, but he just couldn't believe that dying and then waking up again in the morning as though nothing had happened was possible. He was clearly going insane. Hell, he probably did have a brain infection or something, just like Stan had suggested.

No. There was no point lying when his mental and physical health were at stake. And there was no point in wasting time.

"You don't remember anything after recess?" his mother demanded after he had relayed everything to her, now in full-on interrogation mode.

"I dunno, Mom. It's like I said—what I remember is dying and going to hell and then waking up in bed. I know it's weird... but that's what I remember."

She stared at him, and Kyle could tell she wasn't sure if she should believe what he was saying, but he could also tell that she was concerned. Kyle just wasn't the sort to lie about something like that. Why would he?

"But you were completely normal yesterday."

"Really?"

"Well, I didn't see much of you, but that's pretty normal if you ask me!"

Kyle rolled his eyes at that. Here he was (probably) dying of a brain tumor or something, and his mom still had the gumption to guilt-trip him.

"Well then," she continued. "I guess we better get to the hospital and have an MRI done. But Kyle—this better not be some elaborate lie."

Kyle agreed, and they were out the door within an hour. The trip there was about as bad as to be expected. His mom fussed the entire time, going back and forth between mercilessly interrogating him and worrying out loud. After arriving at the hospital, they signed in and took a seat in the waiting room. 2o minutes passed and Kyle realized he was bored, so he took out his phone.

To his slight surprise, he had a message from Kenny.

Where u ?

Out sick.

Kyle kept the reply vague. He didn't want to worry his friends just yet.

fuck i wanted 2 talk 2 u

Then talk.

The text Kenny sent next left Kyle flummoxed. It was almost too unreal to process.

_You're probably just having another episode_, he told didn't feel like an episode though. Then again, neither had the previous two. But how could he die and then just come back? That didn't make any sense. But here Kenny was, confirming it.

_But what if _this_ is_ _just a psychotic episode?_

Kyle shook his head. He'd been down the 'existentialism' road before and had no interest in going down it again. He sent Kenny his reply, and it was agreed they would meet up when Kenny got out of doctor asked the standard questions (What are your symptoms? How long have you had them? Are you experiencing any pain? Etc.) He did a standard physical and arranged to have an MRI done.

"As far as I can tell, you're fine," said the doctor. "We won't know until the MRI results come back."

"But doctor," said Sheila, "what could be wrong with him?"

"Search me," said the doctor. "Could be a brain tumor; could be he ate a funny mushroom."

And that pretty much concluded their visit. When they got home, Kyle went straight to his room and collapsed on his bed. Kenny wouldn't get there until after 3. He was thinking about the long wait he had ahead of him, when his phone dinged.

Looking at his phone, he saw another message from Kenny.

can i head ur way now?

Kyle replied, Dude, I don't think my mom will be cool with you ditching.

dont worry i'll clime n through ur window.. i'll b quiet

Sheila would _not _approve of him harboring a truant, but finding out what Kenny had to say was more important than how his mother might react. It seemed like the only thing that might relieve his anxiety, and he was happy Kenny was willing to ditch to talk to him earlier.

Okay, he replied.

Kyle sat up in bed and stared at his window, biting his nails.

After a little less than an hour, Kenny clambered into the bedroom, spilling out onto Kyle's floor. He sprang back up at once. He then hurriedly undid the drawstrings of his jacket and pulled back his hood, which Kyle took as an indication that they were about to have a very serious conversation.

"Hey, Kyle."

"Hey, Kenny."

Formalities.

"How come you believe me now?" Kenny asked, not missing a beat.

"Kenny... I've died the past two days."

"_What_?"

"The day before yesterday a plane was shedding parts and I got crushed. Then yesterday I got stung by a bee and died of an allergic reaction.

Kenny's mouth dropped open. For a long while he stood, stock-still, looking dumbfounded. After a while though, he seemed to come to, and pulled out Kyle's desk chair and plopped into it.

"Kenny..." Kyle began, his voice hesitant, "I remember when we were playing superheroes..." He trailed.

"Yeah. I tried to tell you then."

"I'm sorry."

Kenny shook his head dismissively.

"Well, I'm all ears now. Tell me everything."

"Not much more to tell. I've always had the power of resurrection... if you want to call it that. But for some reason it makes it so I'm like a beacon for death. I die all the time, and no one can ever remember it."

"Wow. It's been like that forever?"

"Pretty much."

"And I've seen this?"

"Only like a hundred times."

"I can't believe that," said Kyle, surprised.

Kenny shrugged. "You never could."

"But _why_? And why is it happening to me now? There has to be a reason."

Kenny didn't reply, just stared at a blank bit of Kyle's wall. "Uh... earth to Kenny?" said Kyle once it became apparent he wasn't going to reply.

He seemed to give himself a little shake. "I don't know, Kyle," he admitted. "I've never been able to figure it out, and every time I thought I figured something out... I was wrong."

"Oh come on," said Kyle, "you have to know more than that. You've had this thing your whole life, right? Why is it on me now? Did something happen? _Think._"

"I don't know," Kenny admitted again. He felt useless. "I don't know much, to be honest. I sorta just decided to live with it and not ask questions."

Kyle looked disappointed, and maybe even a little annoyed. Kenny had to bite his tongue to keep from lashing out at him. Where did he get off passing judgment on him? He had died twice—a mere _taste _of Kenny's life. Instead, he said, "I wish I could be more help. This thing has tortured me my whole life... but there's no sense to it. No rules."

"No kidding," said Kyle. "I really feel like I'm going insane here."

"Yeah. I know the feeling."

"Listen, Kenny. I know you don't think you know anything, but you must have gotten some bits of information over the years. If you just tell me everything you know, we'll be able to muddle through everything and get to the bottom of this. I mean... there has to be a reason."

"Kyle, I pretty much told you everything I know."

"Dude, we have to approach this like detectives. Systematically organizing all the information we got, even details that may seem unimportant."

Kenny smiled. Trying to figure out their predicament by examining the 'details' would be like trying to figure out God by reading the Bible. "Well, I do have a lot written down..."

"You've kept some kind of record?" asked Kyle, perking up hopefully.

Kenny grimaced. "Sorta..." In actuality, he had just jotted down what he could remember one day during a brief moment of inspiration, hoping like Kyle, that he might be able to piece something together. This particular attempt at solving his problem had gotten him nothing but boredom and frustration. While better than the Earth-shattering disillusionment he experience later, it was still not a project he was eager to return to. It was better to just give Kyle the papers, which were crumpled and neglected in the back of his bottom dresser drawer.

Kyle smiled. "You know what, Kenny? I think this might actually be a good thing. If we put our heads together, we might just be able to figure this thing out."

Kenny suppressed his doubt. "Sure, Kyle."


End file.
